


The House That Dripped Blood

by Mina Lightstar (ukefied)



Series: Purgatory Pre-8 [1]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: M/M, Post-season 7
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-09-24
Updated: 2012-09-24
Packaged: 2017-11-14 23:58:24
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,841
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/520865
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ukefied/pseuds/Mina%20Lightstar
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Cas tries to help them bear Purgatory.  Or at least survive it.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The House That Dripped Blood

**Author's Note:**

> For hc_bingo, "forced soul-bonding." I wanted to get my **Brokeback Purgatory** fic out before S8 officially Jossed it. : / Title from The Mountain Goats.

Cas is a fucking dick, Dean decides. A cowardly, weaseling, sissy _dick._ Being pissed feels good, helps stave off the panic. The angrier he is, the stronger he is. And the stronger he is, the better his chances against whatever the fuck just scurried along behind him.

His fingers are freezing; he curls them into trembling fists. Purgatory is a frost-bitten, unforgiving wedge between Heaven and Hell. It's as cold and dark as the death that lurks within it. Dean waits, listening to the trees rustle, watching his breath become mist.

Finally, he loses it.

"Fuck it, come _on,_ already!" he shouts, spreading his arms in invitation. At least fighting for his life would get the blood flowing.

The demons in Purgatory are eager to please, as it turns out. The trees rustle some more, making Dean's hackles rise. Bastards're coming from everywhere now. He takes a deep breath, squares his shoulders, and then something grabs him by the back of his neck.

Dean's yell goes skyward when he's yanked back. Long, jagged claws pierce his skin and it stings — burns down to the very core of his mortality. He's in Purgatory, not in Hell. He's alive, and that means he can die. Horribly. Irreversibly. _Alone._

He twists in the creature's grip. Reaches back and tries to grab its face. He can't; its reach is too long, like a wendigo's. It tightens its grip and lifts him clear off the ground. He kicks at it — pathetic — but it only turns and slams him face-first into the nearest tree.

Dean sees stars. He thinks his nose is bleeding. The maybe-a-wendigo's got two huge hands on him now. One curled around each arm. It starts slowly pulling him apart and he can _feel it._ His shoulders protest, bone and cartilage creaking beneath the pressure. _"Ripped to shreds."_ He bites down hard on his lip. If he's going to die like this, he won't make a fucking sound. He won't give them the satisfaction.

There's a grunt, a growl, and then the pressure's gone. Dean doesn't have time to move before the creature's shoved against him, pressing him further into the thick trunk. Its leathery black face hits the bark over Dean's shoulder. A white, bloodshot eye stares at him for one keen moment before the corpse is tossed aside.

"Hurry," Cas orders, grabbing his jacket.

Dean stumbles along after the angel, stunned. After four or five yards, he recovers enough to start running on his own. "Where the hell did you go?" he demands.

"To make this," Cas explains, and then Dean notices the crude approximation of a stake clutched in his other hand. It's dark with unnatural blood.

Something skitters through the underbrush to their right. Dean glances over but doesn't see anything. "Cas, we have to get out of this hellhole."

Cas doesn't answer, and they keep running until they hit a riverbank. There's a small island in the middle, bare but for a couple of rocks. "Cross it," the angel commands, looking over his shoulder.

Dean balks, but doesn't argue. The water is frigid; his legs go numb as he wades in. Thankfully he doesn't have to swim for long. When he crawls up onto the little island, his teeth are chattering. He sits on the cold ground and huddles in on himself. He's wearing three layers of shirts and they aren't doing him any good.

When Cas appears next to him, Dean grunts something unsavory and punches the angel's leg. "Why the hell didn't you just teleport _me_ over here?" he manages through shivers.

"I didn't know I could," Cas replies, apologetically. He kneels, looking haggard. "I don't know what I can and cannot do here. I'm sorry." His mouth works. "I will have to experiment. But I won't leave you to fight alone," he promises, sounding very much like the old Cas.

Dean averts his gaze, glancing at the flowing river on either side of them. "Are we safe here?"

"No," Cas replies easily. "Not all supernatural beings fear running water." He purses his lips. "This is … a short respite, if anything."

Dean slams his hand on the ground; it hurts like a bitch. "So we're going to hang out here until there's a welcome party waiting on the banks for us? Fuck that." He starts to stand up. "I've got, I've got a couple of weapons left. They won't catch me off-guard again."

But Cas is grabbing at his shoulders, stilling him by force. He's not a god or a Leviathan or maybe even an angel, anymore — but he's strong. "You can't. Dean, listen to me very carefully: the souls here are monsters. Every single creature here has been doomed to hunt each other down for all eternity." Cas's fingers tighten around Dean's wet shoulders. "They're ruthless, bloodthirsty, and virtually immortal." The realization must dawn on Dean's face, because Cas nods and gives him a little shake. "You can't kill what's already dead. You can't banish something when it's already exiled from the mortal coil."

Dean shudders, not just from the chill. "I can't gank anything here," he says, very softly.

"No," Cas affirms, "you can't. All you can do is stall them for a time." His gaze flickers to the stake lying on the ground. "You can rip their flesh and slit their throats and they will feel it — they will suffer. But they will eventually re-manifest. As I said, they are doomed to torment one another for all time. And your being here, being _alive_ , makes you a beacon for everything that isn't. They can see you, smell you." Cas shakes his head. "The only thing they hate more than each other is the living. You don't belong here with them. They're going to keep coming after you."

Ripped to shreds, he thinks. Ripped to shreds in Purgatory, and Sam won't even know where he's gone. He shoves Cas away. "Well, thanks for saving me from that monster so I could have the opportunity to die from hypothermia, or _another_ monster."

Cas studies him for a long time. Finally, his brow furrows and he tilts his head. "You're an ungrateful little bitch, did you know that?"

Whatever it was he thought Cas was gonna say, that was not it. "I — what?"

"Come here," Cas says, but he's the one who moves. He leans forward again, one warm hand cupping Dean's cheek and the other pressing against his sodden shirt, right over his heart. He frowns in concentration, eyelids fluttering shut.

Dean blinks at him. After a minute he asks, "What are you doing?"

"Quiet," Cas says. "I'm trying to …"

Dean feels it then: a warmth emanating from Cas's hand. It moves through him, hot and sweet and almost euphoric. Dean closes his eyes and leans into Cas's hands. The heat brings with it little zings of electric pleasure and Dean hears himself make a noise he normally reserves for special ladies.

Then Cas's hands are gone and Dean nearly falls over. "What'd you do?" The warmth is gone, leaving him bereft and chilled.

Cas actually looks embarrassed. He aims his gaze at the ground and clears his throat, a decidedly human gesture. "Something grossly unorthodox. But you'll be pleased to know it didn't involve bees."

Dean considers that, and shrugs one shoulder. "What could be more unorthodox than—" he hesitates, not wanting to bring up Cas's rap sheet while they are stuck in Purgatory together, "—bees?" he finishes instead.

"I bound us together," Cas confesses. When Dean doesn't react beyond a raised eyebrow, the angel explains further. "I've cloaked you in my Grace — what remains of it, anyway. The souls here will believe you and I are one, until they get close enough. It should help you remain hidden."

So he just got soul-married to an angel. Normally this would call for a snide remark about how he's pumped full of Angel of Thursday. Or how he's got a little piece of Cas inside him. Or asking why it feels like your insides are masturbating.

But he's just too fucking tired, so all he says is, "Thanks."

Then he takes stock. He's got two small knives: one silver, one iron. No salt or holy water, but his gun should be all right once it dries off and Cas has a stake. It's not ideal, but at least he can give his murderers a hard time.

"Dean," Cas ventures. "You're shivering."

Dean shoots him a look that hopefully encapsulates the sheer amount of _no shit_ he wants to invoke. "Give me your stake," he says. "I think my lighter might still work."

"No," Cas replies, firm. "No fire. It isn't natural here; you'll draw attention."

Dean's read some stories about hypothermic victims stripping their clothes off and sunbathing on Everest, but he's not quite there yet. "Then it was nice knowing you," he scoffs, and settles in to freeze to death.

"Oh," Cas realizes. "Of course, I apologize." He reaches for Dean. "Pull my finger."

Dean stares at the long, pointed index finger. "Cas," he deadpans, "this is not the time, okay?"

"Trust me," the angel insists, still holding out his hand.

Dean shivers through the breeze. It's not enough that he's going to die, but he has to sit through ridiculous games until he does. With a put-upon sigh, he grabs Cas's finger and pulls.

The change is immediate. It's like he pulls warmth from Cas to bottle up inside himself. Heat settles in his lugs, pulsating steadily through his arms and legs. Dean waits for it to fade, like the warmth of Cas's Grace did, but it burns on.

"You doing this?" he asks the angel, curling back up to bask in this newfound comfort.

"Yes," Cas replies simply. His face scrunches up in concentration. "For how long, I'm uncertain." He sits next to Dean, rearranging his trenchcoat so it fans out behind him.

Dean casts him a sidelong glance. "Well," he muses, "if I've gotta be trapped in Purgatory, there's no one else I'd rather be stuck with."

Cas doesn't answer, but Dean catches the smile.

***

He doesn't remember falling asleep, but he wakes to find himself snuggling with Cas. They're curled up under the trenchcoat, enveloped with angelic warmth, hiding from the cold, harsh reality around them. When Dean pokes his head out, he finds that morning in Purgatory isn't any more inviting than night was. It's gray, cold, and barren.

"You're awake," Cas observes. He looks downright snug as a bug. It makes Dean almost want to laugh. "We should move on." But he makes no move to leave their makeshift cocoon and neither does Dean.

Then Dean's stomach growls. "Shit," he mutters. He hadn't thought of that. Where was a mortal going to find food in a prison for damned supernatural souls? He isn't even sure if the water is _really_ water, or just some vague approximation of the mortal world. What if he drinks it and there is no effect?

Cas blinks, as though seeing him for the first time, and shifts marginally closer, ruining their trenchcoat arrangement. Dean didn't think they could _get_ any closer than they already were, but Cas proves him wrong. He grabs Dean the way he had yesterday, a hand on his cheek and a hand on his heart, and concentrates.

Right, Dean remembers. The Grace thing was _temporary._ He lets it happen, eyelids fluttering shut as the zings of pleasure shoot through his body. Hunger and thirst disappear; angels have no need for such things. And then, in the distance, he feels … affection, guilt. Loyalty and stubbornness. Dean makes a face while he tries to focus, tries to chase that train of thought — but Cas is crafty, keeps him distracted with….

When he comes back to himself, his mouth is dangerously close to Cas's. He pushes away awkwardly, muttering "Sorry."

"It's all right," Cas replies, sounding breathless. "I told you, this is very unorthodox. Sharing Grace is …" he swallows, looking glassy-eyed, "… a bond like no other. I'm trying to be careful, but it can be … difficult." He gives himself a shake. "Humans tend to associate this type of closeness with physical affection."

Dean fidgets uncomfortably. That was Angelspeak for _"Sorry my power makes us want to molest each other"_ but it's better than starving to death. "It's fine," he says, sitting up. The cold slaps him in the face, but it's way better than yesterday. "So, now what?"

The look Cas gives him is pessimistic. "I don't know."

And well, isn't that just _great._

***

Purgatory is leaps and bounds better than Hell. If Dean had a choice about where to spend eternity in damnation, he'd pick Purgatory in a heartbeat. It's a little inconvenient, being mortal and all; things would be different if he didn't have Cas basically keeping him alive. But really, if Dead were dead? He'd be all over this Purgatory deal. Sure, they both boast eternal loneliness and punishment, and they're both filled with things that want to see you suffer — but in Purgatory? You can _fight back._

Dean pulls his silver knife from the Shadow's neck, watching it bleed out. That's what he's taken to calling Purgatory's damned, but the truth is they come in a variety of shapes and sizes. This one's humanoid, built like the Rock and sporting a reptilian face only a mother could love.

"You okay?" he calls to Cas, wiping his blade on the grass.

The angel appears at his side, clutching his bloodied stake. "I think that's the last of them. We can only hope the fighting didn't attract more attention."

Dean glances over at Cas's felled opponent. It looks like a large scorpion. The sight of the pincers makes Dean swallow. He glances back to the angel to make sure he's not hiding any injuries, but Cas seems fine.

Of course, "fine" is a relative term. "The forest is endless," Cas comments, sounding frustrated. "If only I were able to differentiate the energy signatures here more efficiently."

"Don't blame yourself," Dean finds himself replying automatically. It's an old discussion at this point. "It's still the best plan we've got."

It's a far-fetched, crappy-assed plan, too. How are they supposed to find a portal out when Purgatory seems to stretch on forever? Moreover, provided Sam is even trying to open another portal, how is he supposed to know how large Purgatory is? How is he supposed to know that Dean and Cas can't just hop on out?

Fuck, this is getting depressing.

"Cas," Dean says, watching the corpses at their feet begin to shimmer, "maybe we should get out of here."

***

Two months in, Dean has nearly forgotten what runny eggs taste like — how beer feels sliding down his throat. These things slip your mind when you no longer feel hunger and thirst. He spends most days fighting for his life and most nights lost in nightmares. He doesn't remember any of them, but often wakes with a scream, Sam's name torn from his throat.

Cas's powers depend on how exhausted he is. The first time he crashed, it had come as a surprise to both of them. Dean had spent that night guarding a rocky alcove, watching for Shadows with the knowledge that he is completely on his own. Even fully-charged, Cas retains but a fraction of his former abilities.

He's also growing a beard. Dean makes this discovery in the middle of Cas reapplying his Grace. When the ecstasy fades, Dean realizes he's running his fingers through the scruff on Cas's cheek.

"Sorry," he mumbles, pulling his hand back.

"It's all right," Cas says — has been saying every single time.

"Cas, why…?" Dean gestures vaguely to the slowly growing whiskers. It doesn't make any sense, angelic vessel or not. Dean's body has been status quo since he got here — hair, nails, and all.

"I don't know," Cas answers, looking down at his hands. "I've been trimming my nails. They were affecting my wielding of the stake," he explains. He closes his eyes briefly, looking tired.

Dean drops it, and figures the angel will sleep tonight. "We should keep moving," he sighs. There's no real conviction in his words. They aren't moving toward a goal; they're moving to avoid getting murdered in their sleep.

They're moving so as to be around on the off-chance a fucking portal to Earth opens up.

***

The next time Cas imbues Dean with his Grace, they're curled up behind an enormous red maple, blanketed in the trenchcoat and Dean's leather jacket. And it's, it's too much — too _intimate_. Dean grunts in frustration and tries to pull away. Cas murmurs something soothing and scoots closer.

One of them smells sour; Dean can't tell whom. It doesn't even matter; it's _them._

When the electric heat ebbs, he realizes they're kissing. They can't seem to stop. Cas's moustache tickles and he fits his body against Dean's, slotting their hips together like it was meant to be. Dean finds himself ignoring their mingling bad breath, hands frantically working up the back of Cas's hospital shirt. He rolls his hips against Cas's experimentally, and then they're rutting, panting, grunting. He tries to shove Cas on his back but the angel is already climbing atop him. It's only when Cas is looking down at him with glazed eyes that the spell breaks.

"Shit," Dean gasps. "Sorry."

Cas slides back into the dirt, and they quickly rearrange the coats to keep escape the cold once again. "I told you, it's all right." He doesn't sound convinced. "Another's Grace is … euphoric. Addicting. It can be overwhelming."

"No," Dean says. He glances over at Cas, but the angel isn't looking at him, choosing instead to stare up at the sky. "No, that's not what…"

"Get some rest," Cas advises, and proceeds to do just that.

Dean lies awake for a long time, hard as a rock and confused as hell.

***

"It's a bad idea," Cas rules, resolute.

"I know," Dean admits. At Cas's raised eyebrow, he amends, "Yeah, I know. It's just, I know you won't get it, but I feel foul, man. You can warm me up after, right?"

Cas hesitates before grudgingly admitting, "Yes."

"Then I'll just be a few minutes." He thumbs at the stream behind them. "Just 'cause I don't need food or shaving cream doesn't mean I can't rinse off once in a while."

Cas's gaze flickers between Dean and the stream. He looks around, ensuring that they're alone, and finally huffs. "Fine. Don't be long."

He marches away without a word, and Dean doesn't waste any time. He strips away every layer he's wearing, toes off his shoes and socks, and wades into the frigid waters. Purgatory's a little warmer today, so it doesn't feel like Dean's legs are going to fall off. He walks until he's waist-deep, then crouches to soak himself. Without soap, not much can be accomplished, but he wipes away all the dirt and grime from his skin, scrubs through his hair, and washes his face.

He feels like a million bucks once he comes out, stepping gingerly on the riverbank's stones. He stares down at his pile of clothes, debating whether to dry off before or after Cas dries him off. The thought of putting on the same underwear again kind of makes his skin crawl, but it's not like he has much of a choice.

He's trying to figure out how to wash his clothes when he's grabbed from behind. _Cas—?_ he thinks, confused — but no. Once he's able to focus, he can make out the African-American hand clamped over his mouth. Fighting a surge of panic, Dean lashes out. The other hand loosens its choke-hold on him to squeeze his Adam's apple in warning.

The vampiric Shadow sniffs around his ear, making Dean try to recoil. The grip is unrelenting, and Dean gives a muffled cry when some saliva drips onto his neck.

"Now aren't you a sight for sore eyes," Gordon rumbles in a smooth timbre. Dean stiffens, at a loss. Fuck. He's got, he's got nothing. "Been following your scent for a few days," Gordon goes on. The hand covering Dean's mouth tightens, squeezing his jaw. His head's pulled back onto Gordon's shoulder, exposing the vulnerable line of his throat. "Never did forget what you smelled like. What are you doing in Purgatory, hm?" He breathes the next question right into Dean's ear. "What did Sammy do now?"

Dean elbows Gordon in the gut with everything he has. Turns out that isn't much — not for a Purgatory-strengthened vampire — and all Gordon does is laugh. Dean bites the hand covering his mouth. He pulls at the arm around his throat. Gordon's laughter becomes a growl. Dean has time to think that this is the most undignified way to die, and then it all happens at once.

Cas shouts something. Gordon roars. Dean is released, falling face-first onto the rocks. Without skipping a beat, he reaches for the silver knife in his clothes. It's better than being unarmed.

When he turns around, his jaw drops. Gordon doesn't look like a Shadow; he just looks like Gordon. He's also in the process of losing his head. Cas is glowing — _glowing_ — with rage. Dean flinches while bone crunches and skin tears. Cas rips Gordon's head clean off his shoulders and his body goes limp, falling into a heap on the ground. Black blood oozes from the gaping wound. Cas throws Gordon's head unceremoniously into the stream.

There's not much you can say to something like that, so Dean swallows and goes with, "Thanks."

Crisis over, the angel visibly deflates, looking spent. "Shall we move on?" he inquires wryly. "Or do you need another bath while this one regenerates?"

Bathing with severed heads isn't really Dean's thing, so he shrugs into his clothes without argument.

***

Dean doesn't sleep that night. Or the night after that. Gordon has re-manifested somewhere out there. Gordon has his scent and wants him dead — just like god knows how many other twisted souls in this world. Virtually everything he and Sam ever ganked is floating around here somewhere, taking a number to have a go at him. Gordon's just the beginning.

Purgatory's not such a clear choice over Hell anymore.

***

"I'm going to get you out of here, Dean," Cas promises on the third night. They've just shared Cas's Grace and are wrapped up in each other, foreheads pressed together. Cas's beard has gotten a little thicker. Dean has a rash from where it rubbed against his skin.

"How?" Dean wonders, lazily. He's beyond tired, and the post-orgasmic glow of Grace isn't convincing him that he should be alert. He nestles into the angel, eyelids fluttering shut.

"I don't know," Cas confesses, stroking Dean's cheek with his thumb. "But I'll find a way. After all I — after everything, I will save you from this. I promise." He tightens his hold, and Dean finds himself reciprocating. "I promise," Cas reiterates in a whisper.

***

At the break of dawn, they keep moving.

~End.


End file.
